Excerpts
by Sivven
Summary: Three-part tale of love and loss.


**All characters are the property of Blizzard Entertainment. Equally, all due deference to Christie Golden.**

**AU alert for the third part of this story. **

Excerpts

—The Lovers—

Jaina watched from her hidden alcove, awaiting the prince's arrival. She smiled to herself, leaning closer into the concealing shadows, as she heard the familiar sound of his approach—long, swift strides, bringing him to her.

He was not wearing armor today, nor any telling regalia. Instead, he was dressed for riding, in dark brown leathers, soft, buckskin boots, and a pure-white, silk shirt. She sighed at the sight of him. He needed no insignia to state the obvious; his ascendancy was manifest. His golden hair, chased with dappled sunlight, tossed on a slight breeze that could not resist embracing him. It toyed with the loosened lacings of his shirt and through this access, Jaina could see the taut, muscular contours of his upper chest, with its light dusting of flaxen hair, and the deep, shadowed hollow of his throat. She loved kissing him there—the heat and taste of him, spicy salt—where his fierce pulse thundered for her touch. In those fleeting, furtive interludes—stolen moments, for them to share—he was _hers_, alone.

He paused in the middle of the path, glancing around.

_Looking for me..._Jaina thought, pleased to be the tease, for once. He came closer, turning slowly; pale eyes, glittering and jewel-like in the early sunlight, scanned the garden for any sign of his wayward, often forgetful mage. His tall, strong body was perfectly muscled, limber and graceful. He was a man wonderfully comfortable in his own skin. She smiled. His beautiful, golden skin...

A faint smile curled his lips; and Jaina heard his soft, contagious laughter. In a moment, he strolled over to a nearby bench and sat down. There, he stretched out his long legs, crossed his ankles, and leaned back with every indication of patience. Vigorous by nature, he had little capacity for waiting, and so he remained seated only briefly before he was on his feet again. Jaina shook her head, amused.

_Wild, restless spirit, this one..._

He turned, with a smile, towards the sound of soft, quick footsteps. His anticipation faded, however, as their owner appeared around the curve of the path.

"Hello, Kael'thas..."

"Ah, Prince Arthas...what brings _you_ to the garden?" The elven mage, a prince, himself, drew nearer and the two men studied each other, somewhat antagonistically.

Kael'thas Sunstrider knew precisely what the Lordaeron crown prince was doing here; and Arthas knew their purposes were identical.

Jaina sighed, grateful for her concealment.

Tall and composed, otherworldly in his perfect beauty, Kael'thas had already seen her in Arthas's company, and while he had made no overtures towards her, Jaina sensed, in his soft, wistful gaze and gentle attentiveness, a desire to approach her as more than a colleague.

"But then, I do not think I need to ask..." Kael'thas added. Arthas smiled; but he offered no reply to the suddenly tense, elven prince. "Why be so secretive of your little romance?" Kael'thas asked, with a sardonic glitter in his gemstone eyes; there was only a pretense of amusement in the words. Jaina heard their sharp, bitter overtones, and she was quite certain Arthas had as well.

"Why satisfy the rumormongers?" Arthas answered. "How would that serve us?"

"If you are ashamed of Jaina Proudmoore's company..." Kael'thas murmured, "Rest assured, there are others who would not be."

Arthas tilted his head, his eyes narrowing. "I am well aware of that fact, Prince Kael'thas," he said, "and if Lady Jaina decides she prefers another's company, well, that will be her choice. But no one else's. Including mine."

"How magnanimous of you," Kael'thas retorted with soft intensity, lacing his long, tapered fingers together. Deceptive in their apparent delicacy, these were formidable hands, exceedingly dangerous. Kael'thas resisted the temptation to do some serious, and oh, so satisfying damage to this insolent young man, even as Arthas's intent, adversarial gaze seemed to invite him to that very response.

Wielding impeccable control over many forces, Kael'thas was a powerful archmage; Jaina knew it well. While Arthas was extremely adept at the utilization of steel—quick, agile and precise—even as skilled as he was, mere physical prowess was no contest for the elven mage's magical arsenal. Arthas knew this, of course, but he could be impetuous and obstinate—especially when provoked. Not to Jaina's surprise, he smiled again, leaning aggressively towards Kael'thas, as if demanding confrontation.

_Well, this foolishness will not come about because of me..._Jaina thought, stepping out of her shadow and crossing the terrace with intention.

To the two men, who turned, startled by her sudden appearance, it seemed that she had just walked out of the hall behind her. Even Kael'thas had been unaware of her hidden, watchful presence. She smiled radiantly, as she drew nearer, sensing them both relaxing—forgetting about conflict and focusing their full attentions upon her.

"Good morning, Kael'thas," Jaina said; her warm, caressing hand pressed Arthas's lean ribs, small fingers tightening irresistibly. _"Arthas..." _She smiled up at him, her eyes lingering.

"You are late..." He accused, with a soft laugh, his eyes glowing with pleasure. Kael'thas smiled at her as well, but it was short-lived and wounded. He glanced at Arthas, and it died altogether.

The Lordaeron prince had no further thoughts for his elven counterpart; his entire concentration revolved around her. That was one of many reasons Jaina so adored him; he looked at her as if she were the only woman in the world. He made her feel so..._necessary_. And he did not even need to speak to do it—his touch, his gaze, so expressive, spoke for him, and eloquently. Even more so than an elven archmage, with all his power and exquisite beauty. Even _he_ paled before this golden, favorite son of Lordaeron.

She took Arthas's arm and he leaned closer; his eyes twinkled at her, all mischief. That was another aspect of his native charisma that thoroughly charmed her—his wild and capricious humor; it enthralled her. She never knew what to expect from him, and her careful, regimented life cried out for the release of his mercurial recklessness. It was as if she could, through him, vicariously grasp and briefly own, some sense of real liberation. _He freed her. _In some ways, that characteristic was as moving as his captivating, physical presence, which never failed to absolutely overwhelm her with desire.

He stirred in her a hunger so potent it was almost frightening; for in it lived the knowledge that she would do anything for him. He was more than her lover; he was her confidant, her closest friend. This devotion had come to her as inevitably, as naturally, as the need to breathe.

Denying him was an impossibility.

Arthas knew this, as men often sensed such dangerous vulnerability, but he treasured it for the gift it was; he was not a man given to the exploitation of the remarkable. Rather, he held it close and protected, warmed by its bright, burning light. He would take only what she gave him freely; she was not a conquest. Jaina was everything good and guileless and real in his life. She would own him as long as she chose to do so, and he gave himself to her without reservation, fearless in his certainty that she was his, equally.

Kael'thas, sensing his invisibility, was desolated by the sight of them—one gazing fondly at the other—insulated by their oneness. Jaina had barely glanced at him. Had she even spoken? He could not recall, in his agitation. And what did it matter? He turned and walked away. They scarcely noticed his departure, he thought, wishing desperately that he had never sought out her company. He could have protected himself from this devastating harm. Aching, he wanted nothing more than to distance himself from them. The aura of their happiness together was poisonous to him, suffocating.

"Kael'thas is jealous," Arthas said. There was no pleasure in this knowledge; he did not wish the suffering of that most brutal of wounds onto anyone. The pain that devoured all possibility of peace.

Jaina nodded and sighed, distressed. There were those, Arthas knew, who would revel in such power over an unrequited heart—but there was no unkindness in her. The last thing this woman desired was another's pain for her own gratification. "I feel so sorry for him," she whispered. "I think he is very lonely..."

Arthas was not heartless—he had never been a cruel man—but he hardly felt remorse for being the chosen one. And, he believed, if the elven prince tried to be a bit less pompous, he might have more meaningful relationships with the people in his life. Even among the intrinsically prideful Quel'dorei, Kael'thas Sunstrider was the very embodiment of cold haughtiness.

"Well," the prince said softly, "so am I...when I am forced to be without you..."

Jaina gave him a disbelieving smirk and he laughed, bending to gently kiss it away. His warm, smiling mouth teased hers with tender urgency. She slipped her arms up around his neck, leaning into his embrace as his strong arms enfolded her. She felt empowered by his desire for her, yet helpless to resist him.

His long, fine hands moved to stroke her hair, brushing it back from her face. He studied her bright eyes, her soft, parted lips—eager for another kiss. He was very generous. Even had he not been, she could have easily compelled him to it.

_How she looked at him! _He felt dizzy, elated, defenseless. A rousing chaos of unrestraint, it consumed him and he relinquished himself willingly to her, confident of her mercy.

"I have a surprise for you..." he whispered in her ear; his warm, exciting breath made her skin tingle with longing. "Can you guess what it might be?"

Jaina laughed softly—there was no anticipating him; as he would go to any length to surprise and delight her. "Tell me, you tease, you _imp_..." she murmured, watching his sparkling eyes.

He laughed, drawing her closer still; bending over her, he pressed a kiss to the curve of her ear. "It is a secret thing," he sighed. "Just for you..."

"We have no secrets," she countered, her eager hands caressing the restless warmth of him, beneath the smooth silk; slowly, she stroked the enticing, flexible curve of his strong, lean back. "Tell me now, my prince, or you will find your warrior's strength worthless to you, as I wind you—inescapably—in my web..." These words she gave to him, breathless and committed, as she kissed his neck, nuzzling beneath his hair, seeking the sensitive skin behind his ear, where the pale hair curled, downy, upon his nape. His response was a soft, husky groan that made her quiver; his arms tightened.

"I am already lost in your web," he whispered. "Hopeless, helpless, yours..."

Jaina drew back to look at him, compelled by the intensity in his voice. His eyes gazed into hers, shadowy and serene, as if he were beguiled. She studied him, her heart wild and perilous.

"I will always be yours," he promised, _"always yours..."_

—The Slaughterer—

How had it come to this...? Jaina wondered.

Who was this angry, brooding, driven man who stood before her, demanding the impossible, the unspeakable...?

Once so dedicated to salvation, now so determined to destroy. It was beyond comprehension. Jaina was stunned into immobility by the callousness of his words. That one word, especially..._purge_...rang like ruin in her ears. She had entreated him, for the sake of reason and sanity, to consider the horrific nature of this action he demanded of them—_and_ _of_ _himself—_but all he could see was vengeance—bloody-minded and implacable.

She knew him—_didn't she? _How was it possible that he could dismiss her frantic warnings against this soul-annihilating act that he intended?

_Did she have nothing but questions?_

Why could she not offer him an _answer_, something—_anything-_to turn him from this terrible, relentless course he was hell-bent to follow? And that was precisely where it would take him, Jaina knew. Into realms far beyond redemption.

She looked at him, waiting there, Light's Vengeance glowing in his hands, as if this monstrous intention might be sanctified by Deity.

_This could not be!_

If she could not stop him, if he were to commit to this act, he would be lost forever. In certain ways, he already was, having only contemplated it.

"Arthas, please..." she murmured, reaching out to him; he seemed so far away. "You cannot do this. Give me time, there must be another way. There has to be another way..."

His pale eyes fixed on her; and he looked at her as if she were a stranger. _"There is no time..." _he hissed.

_So angry, _Jaina thought, quailing. _He is so filled with rage he cannot see...he is __blinded by it..._

_ Dangerous...he is so dangerous..._

_ Something is here..._Thiswas an icy certainty. _Something more...compelling him to this atrocity...forcing him to destruction._

And it would take them _all_, if they relented, as it even now worked to take _him_...

_Something hungry...waiting...to feed..._

"Think of what you are saying, Arthas..."

_ Oh, my beloved, my love...my precious friend... _

"Think of what you are on the very edge of _doing_."

"It must be done," he whispered, "and it must be done _now_. Give me another, viable choice, Mage...right now. Show me this other way of yours..."

His words were brutal; there was no part of him that truly sought alternatives. She could see that in him now—in the icy countenance, the battleground stance, the murder in his eyes.

Those eyes she so adored. She had seen them glitter with laughter, burn with passion, and glow, warm with tenderness. She had thought he was hers; she was mistaken. She did not know these eyes. She did not know this man.

"Help me..." he murmured then, desperate for sanction, "If _you_ will help me, if you will only stand with me, I can bear what I have to do here today. Together, we can make it right, Jaina..._we can." _He held out his hand to her. Had there ever been a time when she had _not_ taken it? No...but now, she could only look at it. To take it would destroy her.

_"Help you...? _I am _trying_ to help you, Arthas; I am trying to _save_ you..." she whispered. "But you ask too much of me. I cannot—will not—stay. _Not even for you..." _The hated words—they seemed to utter themselves—colder, crueler than even his intentions.

There was so much of him, and so much pain, in that one, whispered word, _"Jaina..."_

In that last, lost moment—she saw it in his pleading eyes—he was almost hers again.

_ You cannot desert him...! _Her heart cried out in agony. _Not now, not when he needs __you most...he will die if you abandon him...I...will die..._but she was already turning away, pivoting them apart, and tenuous possibility passed away, beyond reclaim. Now, it was Uther who reached out for her, and it was his hand that Jaina took, instead.

And that was how they were—life's short, savage finalities.

It had begun to rain, and so perhaps that was all it was upon Arthas's pale face. Not tears, at all. Only rain. But it could not wash him clean...not of _this_ lapse of soul.

_I promised...and now I betray him..._

It seemed the whole world had collapsed and died, and all that lived here now, _was_ tears.

Arthas whispered her name again, his voice vulnerable, breaking. She groaned, a tiny sound of massive anguish; it filled her, staggered her. Uther's staunch arms were shelter in a maelstrom.

"Take me away from here, my Lord," she whispered to him. "Please, take me away..." He helped her into the saddle; her horse flinched, restless. It too, wanted to be gone from this place, sensing dark ferocity in the undercurrents rising to commencement.

Arthas called out to her, once more; but his words were faint, so distant now. It seemed he had traveled far from her, down a long road, riddled with twisting darkness, where she dared not follow. But his voice would pursue her, she knew, even as she turned away from it, away from him.

_"Jaina...?"_

The sound of her name would never be the same again. It had become a ghost—a hollow, murdered resonance—fated to die, here at Stratholme, with all the rest. Unanswered, it had become the very sound of his doom.

—Closure—

He was as gentle with her as he had always been—but there was no warmth, no soft, teasing laughter or murmured endearments. His arms cradled her, but only memory gave his embrace meaning. He felt nothing. No triumph, no pain. No love.

All that he had been, was as dead as his eyes. _Oh, those eyes...what they had become..._

"You are no longer mine," Jaina said, and he inclined his head, unresponsive to the sorrow that lived in those quiet words. She touched his face, a tentative caress; he seemed no longer made of flesh at all, only an intricacy of living ice, beautiful and bitter. A pale sanctum, composed of shadow, a lair for Death's repose. "So cold..." she whispered.

"Did you hope to warm me?" He murmured, not looking away, but scarcely seeing her. Not as he once had.

He closed his eyes then, and for that moment, with the baleful luminosity shuttered away behind lowered lashes, he was almost himself again. "Sometimes..." he said, "I...dream...of Hallow's End. Of the wicker man. I dream of the fire you made in him...and in _me_..." He sighed so deeply it was almost a groan—as if he were infinitely weary.

Jaina leaned over him, where they lay together, in furs rimed with frost; she kissed his cold lips. There was only a ghost of response—more an echo, than anything real. The long, white lashes parted slightly, and wisps of cerulean fire smoldered there, an unearthly shimmer, lending a spectral cast to the pale, familiar, yet alien face.

"I loved you so," she murmured, and he frowned vaguely, as if he struggled to recollect, or decipher, an unknowable word.

"The man you seek is no longer here..." He opened his eyes to look at her levelly. _"He_ _was weak..." _Jaina could not speak to such words, only shaking her head. "You must forget him," he whispered fiercely, "He is gone."

"Do you...hate me?" She asked him then, "For letting you go..."

He gave a soft, uncaring laugh—more wounding than any judgment, and she gasped, stricken by the weight of its dismissive cruelty. "I was born for this purpose," he said.

"Born to _this_...? To be forever alone and as unfeeling as this wasteland?"

He studied her. "And would you have me as agonized as you?" She sensed in him an element of discontent, a brittle crust, over imminent rage.

"I would have you mine again..." she whispered.

He sighed and the sensation of close violence subsided. "You must set aside such delusions, Jaina. I have brought chaos to the balance; there is only the one final confrontation, and its conclusion..."

Jaina moved closer. Was that remorse she heard in his quiet words? A desire for redemption? She shivered, and hope caressed her with its tantalizing lies. "There is always salvation, Arthas, always..."

He smiled faintly in response—and it had about it an evocative, rascal charm; but it was more of malice than laughter. "I seek no forgiveness," he said coldly. "I anticipate the finale—when I will pit my powers fully against those of the Light. Then, we will see who is the strongest."

Jaina drew back, chilled by his words, by their unbearable indifference; it was worse than even their meaning. She began to weep, as hope turned and showed her its true, laughing face. Her tears froze as they fell—strange, glassy beads—and Arthas caught them in his hand, to study them, aloof and unmoved.

_"Why?"_ She gasped.

He tilted his head, "It is the truth of me, Jaina."

_"You had no choice!" _She cried. "You were stolen, by the cursed blade, murdered, by its master! This is not _you_..."

Slowly, he turned, moving over her; there was no menace in him, yet still, she recoiled. "Are you so certain of that?" He whispered. "Did you really know my heart? Or did you, as all the others, only see in me what you most desired, what you _chose_ to see?"

She gazed at him, silent, reaching out to draw him nearer, remembering a time when he was warm gold in her arms. He leaned into her embrace, and when he lowered his head, his mouth possessing hers, so easily, he was gentle ice. She fell into his power, unresisting. There was still hunger in him, but of another kind; there was even still tenderness, like a faded memory, but it was as lost as he was.

Closing her eyes, Jaina touched his face, pressing her lips to once-cherished flesh, now smooth curves and hollows of stone; she refused the cold, and its reminder of his terrible fate. "Take away my pain," she murmured. "I too, wish to feel nothing...let me be with you..." She looked at him again, gazing into eyes now so deadly, to have once been the very color of the newest green life of spring...

He watched her, thoughtful and still, as if some vestige of regret might yet linger to haunt him; he gestured aside. "The one you truly seek is there..." he said, "caught and held within the blade..." She looked at it—ravenous Frostmourne, provocative and cold. "How badly _do_ you want him, Jaina...?"

The glowing sword seemed to flex, rippling, to reshape itself. Less steel now, than metamorphic ice, it opened itself, in revelation. Floating beneath the skin of its mutable facade, only just perceptible, came a writhing, tortured shape, and Jaina moaned, transfixed, as seeking fingertips grazed the blade's silver surface...

_ From within._

With a shriek of despair and desperate longing, she struggled away from the cold arms that held her. Gasping in breathless anguish, from the glimpse it had tauntingly offered her, she ran to the beckoning fiend, as it floated the image from shadow, to crystalline clarity.

He arose there, her golden beloved, phantasmal—an angel, beset—drowned in the emptiness that held him fast, in the cold, cocooning ice. Tormented, his pale, bright eyes wide, an emerald glitter, lost and unseeing. He seemed a fragment from a dream at dawn..._her dream..._

_ "Arthas..." _she sighed, and the aching eyes lifted to gaze at her, poignant, terrible, tender.

"Do not touch the blade," the chilling voice murmured, and she glanced back, to find the king had followed, close behind her. "If you touch it, it will take you..." He reached out to gently seize her hand, whispering, "Come away..." soft words, now laced with pain. "Stay with _me_..."

She looked up at him, and now, _he_ was the ghost, _he_, the pallid image from a dream. A frost vapor, impatient for the sun's incendiary touch. She saw him exchange a glance with his own, lost soul—and what passed between them, she could not know, but he released her then, stepping back, troubled and uncertain.

She turned away from everything, to the image in the ice.

His hand pressed the gelid barrier, in temptation, in memory.

And with a soft cry, Jaina reached out for him, falling into the cold surface, burning it away, in passage. She gasped, and she was in his arms again. His warmth enveloping her, as he drew her in, away from the reach of unendurable loss, into peace—where the savage trap betrayed itself, and in that one, infinite moment, became salvation.


End file.
